


Alpha Centauri

by sburbanite



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dorks in Love, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, Liberal biblicisms, Love Confessions, M/M, Other, post-TV show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-01 16:58:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sburbanite/pseuds/sburbanite
Summary: Crowley has been through a lot in the last 48 hours. Aziraphale wants to make it up to him, and dinner is just the start.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Time to write some fanifc for my favourite book/TV show :D

Although he had spent rather more than 7 evenings like this; with good wine, good food, and even better company, Crowley had to admit that this particular evening was perfect. Many of them had been wonderful, of course, but with the soft candlelight of the Ritz shining in Aziraphale's eyes and the world still spinning contentedly beneath his feet, things were different. He was drunk on expensive wine, even more expensive champagne and sheer, blessed relief. As usual, Aziraphale was talking animatedly about something or other while Crowley picked at his dessert. He was also trying and failing to keep a smile from spreading across his face.

"...and, oh, it really is remarkable how Adam managed to put everything back the way it was, I mean even the stains on the carpet from the wine we spilled back in '86, d'you remember? All present and correct."

Crowley laughed.

"Why'd you want to keep _stains_ , you daft old fool? You could've miracled 'em away years ago."

"Well…" Aziraphale opened his mouth and then closed it again. He looked down at his hands, fiddling with the edge of the tablecloth.

"I suppose it was a nice memory, dear boy. You just seemed so...happy at the time. I believe your motorway had just been finished."

"Oh."

Crowley vaguely remembered the evening in question, including gesturing a little too expansively with his wine glass as he explained the genius of his changes to the M25. Aziraphale had acted mildly horrified, of course, but he'd listened all the same. Crowley could never quite shake the feeling that the angel been proud of him, even, for finding a way to do something evil that didn't actually _hurt_ anyone. At the time he'd just put it down to the wine.

"Glad you've still got them then," Crowley said, "although I could certainly spill more wine on your floor if you need me to."

"How thoughtful of you."

Aziraphale was smiling at him over the top of his champagne flute; the special little smile that was meant to be disapproving but was really anything but. Crowley wondered if anyone else made him smile like that. He hoped not.

"S'the least I could do, angel."

"Quite."

The smile was a proper one now, so bright it almost painful to look at, even through his sunglasses. Basking in it almost hurt, a pain deep in his chest where a human would have had a heart, sweet and hot and sharp. Then a waiter passed by their table and Aziraphale looked away, leaving Crowley feeling hollow again.

"Could we get the cheque please? Thank you ever so much. The food has been simply delightful."

The waiter bobbed a little bow and sped away with the efficiency of a man who knew how generous diners at the Ritz could be with their tips (especially diners who had consumed a good proportion of the wine cellar in a single evening). Crowley materialised his wallet - from inside a pocket that didn't actually exist lest it ruin the lines of his suit - but Aziraphale waved it away.

"No, no, not this time. I owe you, Crowley."

One of Crowley's hands was resting on the tablecloth between them. Aziraphale gently placed his own over it and squeezed. His hand was warm and soft, and the contact made the demon's mind turn hazy. Crowley's mouth, however, carried on going entirely without permission.

"You don't. I don't pay with real money, obviously."

Aziraphale frowned at him.

"What? I'm still a demon."

"Oh, for heaven's- I was _trying_ to be meaningful, Crowley. _I owe you_."

The angel gestured vaguely at their surroundings with his free hand, both at the restaurant and at the entire Earth. Crowley understood.

"Ah."

He resisted the urge to blush. It wasn't cool to blush, so he grinned instead.

"Guess I'll let you pay, then. I don't know when you last actually sold a book, though, so I hope you've got enough."

Aziraphale answered by reaching into his pocket and pulling out a velvet coin purse. Crowley forced himself not to laugh as the angel fussed with the little brass clasp. There were crisp, new notes inside. There were also two small moths which fluttered out comically, because Crowley only had so much restraint to go around.

"Ha. Ha. Look, do you want me to pay or not?"

"Sorry, couldn't resist."

He snapped his fingers and sent the moths back to where they came from. Aziraphale glared at him.

"They better not have been clothes moths, Crowley. I lost my best velvet waistcoat to those bloody things in the seventeenth century, you know. If they've been laying eggs…"

"Relax, angel. They were just...moth moths. I think. Y'know, outside moths."

He belatedly realized that he had no idea what different types of moth looked like.

"I'll get you another one if anything happens, I swear. OK?"

Aziraphale sniffed.

"It's Edwardian. You can't get another one."

"Fine! Give it here, then," Crowley said, snatching  the purse out of his hand. It was old and worn, made of soft material balding slightly at the edges. It had been used, and loved, for over a hundred years. He sent a small wave of demonic energy through it, just enough to obliterate any living things that might have been lurking in the fabric, before handing it back with a flourish.

"There. Happy now?"

"Yes, thank you."

Aziraphale let go of Crowley's hand to count the notes out onto the table, and just like that, the demon felt his dinner turn to cold mush in his stomach. The evening, the moment, whatever it was that had been different and special, was about to be over. And, sure, they might spend a few more hours getting pleasantly tipsy in the back room of Aziraphale's bookshop, but the spell had been broken. Eventually Crowley would sober up, slink off into the night and menace some pedestrians on the way back to his flat to try and make himself feel better.

He couldn't help worrying that he'd missed something important, or had let it slip away.

When they both stood up to leave, however, instead of weaving his way out past the diners as usual, Aziraphale crooked an elbow in his direction and waited patiently for him to take it. His small smile was as brittle as the moment itself; Crowley felt as though he could shatter both forever if he so much as breathed. Thankfully, he didn’t really need to.

Swallowing the nervous bile rising in his throat, Crowley looped his arm through Aziraphale’s.

"Stepping out together, are we?" he said, his voice held steady and sardonic by sheer force of will.

It was an out. An exit Aziraphale could take if he wanted to play the gesture off as simple angelic affection. Crowley prayed to both Heaven and Hell that he didn’t take it.

“Um. I rather thought we might, actually,” Aziraphale replied, glancing nervously up at him.

Crowley was suddenly acutely aware that Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes. Specifically, the way they had widened with shock and disbelief and desperate hope. He knew he needed to say something, to take his chance before the angel backed down through fear or embarrassment, but he just couldn’t force his vocal cords to behave. Aziraphale’s confidence was already wilting and watching him begin to deflate damn near broke Crowley’s inhuman heart.

“If that’s alright with you, of course. Whatever you would like, my dear. I, that is, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable...we are _friends_ after all is said and done, _best_ friends, even, and I’d hate…”

“Yeah, it is.” Crowley interrupted. “Aright, I mean, with me. I’d, er, like that.”

“Oh.”

He said it lightly, softly, but the little sound carried more meaning than an hour of Aziraphale’s usual waffling. It was happiness in a single syllable. For what seemed like the hundredth time that evening, Aziraphale smiled at Crowley. This one was brighter than the holy light of Heaven, and it made him feel warm all the way to the core of his soul.

“Oh, _good_.”

After what felt like a blissful eternity, Crowley realized they were standing, gazing at each other, in a crowded restaurant. People were staring. The diners closest to them were all conspicuously pretending to eat their meals while side-eyeing the domestic drama unfolding in front of them. Most of them were very bad at it - Crowley spotted one woman trying to eat her soup with a salad fork. As one, they instantly forgot there had been anything to see. For good measure, Crowley added a tablespoon of salt to the plates of the particularly nosy spectators.

“How about we take this outside, hm?” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

Aziraphale nodded, still beaming uncontrollably. The tables of the Ritz parted for them serenely, moving apart so that they could walk out arm in arm and sliding back together as they passed by. Later on, neither angel nor demon would have been able to say who was responsible for that particular small miracle.

***

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm soft, OK? I can't help it.

The night air was warm on Crowley's face as they walked out together, meandering back to where the Bentley was parked. It wasn't the usual oppressive heat of London in the summer; every window of every building flung open to let the city breathe. The normal scent of diesel fumes and hot concrete was gone, replaced by the heavy fragrance of night-blooming jasmine. Somewhere high in the trees, a bird was singing. To Crowley, it was closer to heaven than the real thing.

"Well, would you look at that!" Aziraphale suddenly exclaimed, pointing up at the sky. "I do believe that's Alpha Centauri."

Crowley groaned. As happy as he was to have an angel on his arm, the angel in question was acting extraordinarily stupid.

"That's Venus, you bloody idiot. It's about the only thing bright enough to see from Central London with all this light pollution. How the He-, how does a _celestial_ being not recognise a damned planet? And another thing, you can't even see Alpha Centauri from this latitude, it's under the horizon."

Aziraphale's face fell. Crowley swore under his breath.

"Of course," he continued, "if you really wanted to see it, we could always just go there."

"You mean to say...go off together?"

Crowley froze, stopping both of them abruptly in the middle of the pavement. The choice of words hurt; it stung like salt water on a fresh wound. Aziraphale's voice was soft, loaded with angelic care, but Crowley's heart was still hammering. The angel gently peeled Crowley's hand from his coat sleeve - which he had been gripping hard enough to turn his knuckles white - and held it in his own instead.

"Oh no...I'm sorry, dear. I didn't think."

"S'okay. You were right to say no the first time." Crowley said.

He shrugged and looked away.

"It was a stupid idea anyway."

Aziraphale squeezed his hand.

"Crowley...you do know that I would have given anything to leave with you, don't you? If I thought all the world would have been fine without us, If Heaven had...if…"

The angel was trembling, Crowley realized. His face was crumpling, tears threatening to form at the corners of his eyes, and Crowley had no idea what to do.

"...If I hadn't been such a bloody coward!"

Aziraphale was actually crying now, silently shaking as the tears ran down his cheeks. He began fumbling in his jacket for a handkerchief, rifling through his pockets frantically. Crowley summoned one from nowhere and handed it to him. It had lace edges and floral embroidery. It was probably the least demonic miracle he had ever performed. Aziraphale snuffled into it gratefully, blowing his nose with an ungraceful honk. _Neither of us is anything like what we're supposed to be_ , Crowley thought to himself, _and I'm so glad_.

"Come here, angel," he said, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale.

If they were making a scene in public this time, nobody noticed. People simply took a quick diversion around them, and carried on their way without questioning the three square feet of pavement they had avoided. It was their own little slice of the world.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

The angel was muttering into Crowley's lapels, face pressed up against his chest arms clasped fiercely around his back. They were so close that Crowley could feel him breathing, could almost feel the heartbeat that Aziraphale sometimes forgot to have for a week or so. It was the closest they'd been to one another in six thousand years. It was both wonderful and terrifying.

"Please stop apologising, please just stop, Aziraphale! Look, we only saved the world 'cause _you_ were the one brave enough to fight for it, I would have let it all burn if you hadn't told me what to do and I can't take it if you call yourself a coward."

Crowley rubbed Aziraphale's back awkwardly, attempting to be comforting. He hadn't had a lot of practice at being comforting, but he had seen a lot of television shows and this seemed to be the standard procedure. As far as he could tell, it was working. Aziraphale was no longer shaking, at any rate.

"Anyway," Crowley said, "if you're a coward, what does that make me?"

He was surprised when Aziraphale pushed him away, stepping back so he could look Crowley in the...well, in the sunglasses.

"Anthony J. Crowley, don't you dare insinuate you are anything less than _the_ bravest person I have _ever_ known, which considering how many people I have known is certainly saying something!"

"You called me "Anthony". Crowley said, dazedly. "You never call me that."

"Well. I can't promise I shall do it again, it feels odd to call you what the humans do."

Aziraphale took a deep breath and somehow contrived to stand up even straighter.

"But that's beside the point. The point _being_ that you mean everything to me, and I would very much like you to show me the stars."

Crowley was almost speechless. Coming from Aziraphale, this certainly was a _lot_.

"Gosh. Did you come up with all of that while you had your face in my jacket?"

Aziraphale nodded.

"It was very good. I liked the bit about me being brave."

"Thank you."

"OK then. We can go for a bit. Not too long, though, or the plants'll get sloppy."

"You really should be nicer to them, dear boy," Aziraphale said. It was clear from his doting expression that what he really meant was " _Thank you_."

Rolling his shoulders, Crowley took hold of Aziraphale's hand again and held it tightly. Tapping into his source of demonic power was a little harder now that Hell had decided to pretend he didn't exist, but Crowley was used to being underestimated. The other demons had thought that inventing the wheel was a step too far, technologically speaking. They had less than a snowball's chance of designing a (Hell)firewall that could keep Crowley out.

"Next stop, Alpha Centauri." 

There was a brilliant flash of light, neither hellish red nor heavenly blue. If anyone had been able to see them, they would have seen two pairs of wings unfold before the light surrounded them; one brilliant white and one midnight black. Or, perhaps, under the dim glow of the streetlights, both pairs would have seemed to be shades of grey.

Instead, the London pedestrians simply corrected their paths back into straight lines, and a nightingale continued to sing unheeded.

***


	3. Chapter 3

Teleportation for an Angel or a Demon was easy; it was simply a matter of slipping through the firmament between the atoms themselves. All things were one, once, before time began. It just took a little celestial nudge to make the Universe remember. Crowley dropped them both out into the vast emptiness of space at a respectful distance from Alpha Centauri. Suns might not be as hot as hellfire, but they were much brighter and were best viewed from a few million miles out. The air molecules that had followed them quickly boiled away into the vacuum. Crowley was about to grab some more from the atmosphere of the small blue-green planet rolling by just below them, when he felt the warmth of the London air again. The scent of tea and old dust meant that Aziraphale must have pulled it all the way out here from his bookshop.

The angel's eyes were huge and shining in the light of the stars. The tears that had been there only a few minutes ago were gone, replaced by delight and wonder. Although it was almost blindingly bright, Crowley found that looking into Alpha Centauri was easier than looking at Aziraphale's face. He felt itchy, self conscious. He knew what Aziraphale was about to say before he said it.

"Not one star, after all," Aziraphale said, dreamily, "but two. Two stars orbiting around one another since the beginning of time. I didn't know."

Alpha Centauri was, as Aziraphale said, a binary system. Two stars shone in the dark expanse before them, one large and bright white, the other smaller and yellow. The softness in Aziraphale's voice was too painful for Crowley. The angel was admiring the work he had done before; before they met, before his fall, before he ever questioned the Grand Plan in the first place. Before he was Crowley. He had been good at stars, he had to admit, but that hadn't mattered in the end. He was cast out all the same.

"Yeah. Very twinkly. I think we should go."

Crowley tried to unclasp his hand from Aziraphale's so he could put it into his pocket. Aziraphale didn't let go.

"What? Why? We just got here."

"I just...I know what you're going to say, that's all. "Look, Crowley, proof you were an angel once, I knew there was always good in you, blah blah blah." I made some stars once because I was told to. That's all there is to it."

Crowley took a deep breath of displaced air and tried to ignore the angel squeezing his hand.

"And," he continued, "in case you were trying to read something into this two stars business, you should remember I made all this before we ever met each other. It's not a bloody metaphor."

Aziraphale said nothing. He just waited until Crowley's breathing slowed, until the tension bled out of him through the warm contact of his angel's hand.

"Crowley," he said, gently, "look at me, please."

He did. After all, when had he ever been able to refuse Aziraphale anything? The angel gestured to the twin stars and their single encircling planet with his free hand, while meeting Crowley's gaze.

"This place is beautiful, but not because an angel made it. It's beautiful because _you_ made it. Not Crowley-who-was-an-angel-once, or the cunning demon Crowley, but you. Crowley who saved my books, who ran into a burning bookshop looking for me-"

"-I knew I never should've told you abou-"

"-Oh, hush. Who walked into the fire for me, not once, but twice. And, after everything I said to you, all the times I pushed you away, you still asked me to come away with you as if I was the only thing that mattered."

Crowley swallowed. Aziraphale seemed to be waiting for him to say something.

"Well, yeah, I mean. S'nice this time of year."

Aziraphale smiled knowingly.

"Quite. Certainly much nicer than the screaming, burning plains of Armageddon."

His face was difficult to read in the soft starlight. To Crowley, he seemed to be saying a great many dangerous things without saying anything at all. They were at a precipice in their relationship, and it felt as though Aziraphale was trying to patiently coax him over it. He was going to fall again, probably, but he hoped it wouldn't be so painful this time.

"It would've been a disaster, y'know. No crepes on Alpha Centauri." He said, weakly.

"Possibly. It's possible we didn't actually do anything to stop the apocalypse. It might all have worked out fine, and we would have had to just come home and pretend we hadn't panicked and run off together. I certainly don't feel like I did a lot, to be honest…"

Aziraphale waved his hand, banishing that thought to the huge pile of other thoughts labelled "ineffable".

"...but at least you wanted to try something, to save us if not everyone else. To actually think for yourself and not just meekly do what was expected of you."

The angel looked at him as if he had hung every star in the cosmos. Crowley opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no witty retort was forthcoming.

"What I'm trying to say, Crowley, is that I'm so proud of you. Through it all, you never gave up on me, on us, and I cannot fathom how I can possibly deserve such devotion."

Crowley thought of the cold ruthlessness of heaven, of the way Gabriel had spoken to him when he had been in Aziraphale's form. He thought of the warmth and love Aziraphale put into everything he did, of the pain in his eyes each time Crowley had asked him to defy heaven - the people who would murder him as easily as breathing - of the way he beamed whenever Crowley did something even slightly good. He thought of the way Aziraphale pursed his lips whenever customers dared to step into his shop, of the way he sometimes made traffic wardens' notepads catch on fire, and of the way he had looked at Crowley and threatened "come up with something or I'll never talk to you again," as if it was the worst thing he could possibly think of. He thought of all of these things and it made his chest feel like it was going to burst.

"That's easy, angel. You're you. And I dunno if you've noticed, but you're kind of the only thing that makes my life worth living."

"I feel the same, my dear," Aziraphale said, and Crowley noticed his eyes were shining for a different reason now, "although I haven't always shown it. What I'm trying to say, I suppose, is that I lo-"

" _Don't_ say it," Crowley snapped, putting a finger to Aziraphale's lips, "Don't you bloody say it if you mean it like you mean it about tea, or desserts, or Wilde First Editions. Don't say it…"

He let Aziraphale peel the finger from his lips and felt a burning in his eyes as the angel pressed a kiss to his knuckles. Unable to stop, Crowley mumbled:

"Don't say it unless you _mean it like I do_."

Aziraphale looked at Crowley and, as usual, saw him for who he really was. His best friend, his counterpart, the only person in the Universe who truly mattered.

"I wouldn't dream of it, darling. I love you, Crowley, and I hope you can forgive me for being so frightfully slow in showing it. I can't imagine how much I must have hurt you."

There was silence as the Universe held its breath. It was broken by an extremely inappropriate sound. Crowley was laughing. He couldn't help it. It was evidently not the reaction Aziraphale was expecting.

"What on Earth are you laughing at? The angel asked, his face turning a pleasing shade of pink, "Here I am pouring my heart out-"

"No, no," Crowley was waving a hand as he tried to get enough air to speak, "not laughing at the love bit, very good, that bit, all in favour of that. And, y'know, I feel the same, obviously."

Aziraphale settled a little, downgrading his annoyed expression of from "loose toddler touching the folio editions" to "customer genuinely trying to buy a book."

"It's just you said you hadn't been showing it, you idiot. You look at me as if I've handed you the world, even when all I've done is drunk all your wine and passed out on your sofa. You gave me holy water even though you could have gotten into some bloody big trouble."

"Yes, I would've been recalled on the spot if they'd found out!" Aziraphale said, huffily.

"See, that's what I mean. You _defied Heaven for me_. And I'd honestly forgotten what a bunch of utter wankers they are up there. Amazing what 6000 years of distance will do. Of course you've shown it, Aziraphale, even if you couldn't say it."

"Well, I can say it now," Aziraphale said, drawing himself up to his full height even though they were both standing on empty space, "I love you, and if Heaven doesn't like it, well, they can go fuck themselves."

Crowley's jaw dropped. He closed his mouth quickly, but Aziraphale had definitely noticed.

"Wow." He said.

"Indeed."

Aziraphale looked around nervously, before remembering that he didn't need to be afraid anymore. Or rather, that he had decided that being afraid was worth it.

"Do you think they heard that?" Aziraphale asked with a small smile, half wistful, half rebellious.

"I dunno. I hope so."

"Me too."

This time they both laughed. Afterwards they settled into a companionable silence, hands still linked together as they looked out over the stars of Alpha Centauri, locked in their eternal dance.

"So, dear. No allegorical reasons whatsoever for choosing a binary star system for us to elope to, hm? None at all?

Aziraphale eyed him knowingly. Crowley turned the word "elope" over in his mind and willed away the blush creeping up his neck.

"You'll see, angel. Want to take a look?"

"I'd love to, dear. Lead on."

They descended together slowly through the clouds of the little planet, watching as the twin suns grew hazy and indistinct. Aziraphale squinted at the ground, trying to make out what was below them, but all he could see stretching in all directions was a vast carpet of green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you mean I shouldn't end each chapter with a scene change


	4. Chapter 4

The planet appeared to be one continuous forest, a rainforest of alien plants underneath a thick cover of cloud. The place where they touched down was different, though. Here, the plants are familiar, tamer. They were verdant, perfectly arranged, and quaked ever so slightly as Crowley walked past them.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale asked, amused and delighted, "Is this a garden ?"

"Yep." 

"It's beautiful!"

Crowley watched as the angel wandered from plant to plant, touching leaves and flowers while murmuring to himself. The garden had taken a long time to mature, but you could get something the RHS would lose their minds over with a few millennia on your side. The soil here helped. It was almost as fertile as the first garden had been. More of these plants than Crowley would like to admit were on their second and final chance after a spot of leaf blight or an aphid infestation down on Earth. None ever came back, though. It wouldn't do to let the rest of them catch on.

"Blimey, is that a potting shed?" Aziraphale asked, peering around a large rhododendron bush.

"A  _ potting shed _ , angel. Do I look like I own a bloody potting shed?"

The low building was more what a stylish London financier would have called a "garden annexe". It had large, folding doors all along one wall, a mini-bar stocked with all of Crowley's favourite drinks, and a daybed covered in black satin pillows. There were a few tools in one corner, but all of them were suspiciously clean. Aziraphale suspected they were more for show than anything else, and he would have greatly disapproved had he known that Crowley generally intimidated the dirt out of the way whenever he needed to dig a hole for a new resident. At this point, a deep, vegetable fear of Crowley had spread almost a mile in all directions from the garden, so a quick glare was usually all that was needed.

The doors slid open smoothly with a snap of Crowley's fingers and Aziraphale promptly invited himself in.

"Well, this is very comfortable," he said, sitting down experimentally on the day bed. "Not shed-like at all, in fact. I was rather expecting a lot of rusty tools and spiders and what-have-you."

Crowley smiled fondly as he poured two glasses of single malt and handed one to the angel. He remembered Aziraphale avoiding going anywhere near the Dowlings' ramshackle outbuildings, which had been absolutely infested with mice and insects. The grass had stayed perfectly trimmed anyway.

"I almost forgot you pretended to be a gardener for eleven years. I think I saw you lift a trowel once, maybe? Not terribly angelic to cheat your way through the hard bits, was it?" Crowley winked behind his sunglasses. 

"Well, It wasn't especially demonic to sing sweet lullabies to a sleepy little boy, either, my dear." Aziraphale said, amused. "It's probably for the best that we weren't keeping count."

"Less of the sweet, angel. The lyrics were hell to write."

Crowley sat down next to Aziraphale and clinked his glass gently against the angel's. 

"Cheers."

"Oh, yes. Cheers." Aziraphale beamed at him. "To us."

Crowley grinned. "To us."

They drank deeply.

"So...how long have you been coming here?" Aziraphale asked, and Crowley could sense the unsaid question plainly.  _ "How long have you been planning to run away?" _

"It's just a holiday place," he said, almost too quickly, "Nothing special. I mean I slept here for a bit in the past, when I needed a break from the fucking fourteenth century, but I never meant it to be, like, somewhere to  _ live _ ."

The building had been more of a shed then, and his mattress had been a lumpy bag of horsehair. Crowley shuddered at the memory.

"Ah." Aziraphale looked confused. He tried again.

"What I mean is, It's not home to me, Aziraphale. Couldn't ever be home if...if I was on my own. Not without you."

Aziraphale took his hand again, lacing their fingers together. He smiled, and just like every other time the angel smiled at him, Crowley fell all over again.

"Good. I'm glad to hear it, my dear."

They sat in companionable silence for a while, hands clasped together. Crowley had ached to do this for centuries, just to sit with Aziraphale, touching him, with the undercurrent of love between them finally bubbling to the surface. He basked in it.

After a few blissful minutes, Aziraphale broke the silence. 

"Oh, good gracious! Is that what I think it is?"

He'd noticed the green tops of an apple tree peeking out from the bushes behind the building they were in. It was the prized centerpiece of Crowley's own slice of Eden. 

"Why don't we go and see?" He said, standing and helping the angel to his feet. 

 

The tree was tall and graceful and ancient beyond belief. As they walked toward it Aziraphale noticed a low semicircle wall of warm white stone around its base, just the right height to sit on. Letting go of Crowley, he reached out and touched the tree reverently, feeling the warm life of it stir beneath his fingertips.

"It  _ can't _ be." He whispered.

"It is. A hundred percent genuine fruit of the tree of knowledge. I saved the seeds from the core after it all went tits up."

Aziraphale looked up into the green canopy above, feeling the warmth of the garden and the light of Eden through six millennia of memory. It was breathtaking.

The fruits hanging from the tree were so perfect they almost looked fake. Apples as big as a clenched fist with a red colour so deep it almost glowed. Crowley plucked one and offered it to Aziraphale. The angel blanched. 

"Put it away, I can't eat that!" He batted at Crowley's hand. The angel looked mortified, but it was the kind of horror Crowley had seen before, most notably the first time suggested they should try this "eating" thing the humans seemed so interested in.

"Why not?" Crowley took a bite, sauntering over to the wall and leaning up against it. The fruit tasted like an apple. Perfectly sweet and tart, but still just an apple.

"Because! Because...it's not  _ allowed _ ." Aziraphale was shaking slightly. He seemed to be torn between watching Crowley munch his way through the symbol of mankind's downfall and slapping it out of his hand altogether.

"Really?" Crowley lifted an eyebrow, "After all that's happened, angel,  _ that's _ your objection. I thought it was all meant to be ineffable? I mean, imagine if Adam and Eve  _ didn't _ eat the apple. Then what would've happened? Eternal life inside the walls of one tiny little garden? Sounds pretty dull if you ask me."

The angel frowned at him. His expression was soft around the edges, as though it was close to breaking.

"Crowley, without knowledge there would have been no pain, no suffering…"

"No choices," Crowley said, bitterly, "No questions, no invention or ingenuity. No books or sushi or really incredible cars."

Aziraphale gazed up at the tree. Even transplanted to an alien world, there was something ethereal about it. It seemed to exist in more than one plane of reality, mundane and holy and profane all at once. The tree had to be almost six thousand years old, and Aziraphale could feel the love that had sustained it over the millennia. Crowley's love, he realized. A forbidden love, nurtured in secret. 

"Catch." Crowley made another apple fall into Aziraphale's hand.

It was shiny, beautiful. Aziraphale realized it was the same shade of deep, dark red as Crowley's hair. The angel turned it over in his hand. 

"Forbidden fruit…" he said, under his breath.

He looked up at Crowley, who was watching him intently. The look on his face was guarded, unreadable.

"You know," Aziraphale said, making up his mind. "You might be right. I certainly find I don't much care what is and isn't allowed anymore." 

He took a deliberate step towards Crowley.

"Is that so?"

"It is."

Aziraphale closed the distance between them and put a hand on Crowley's face, cradling his jaw in warmth. Crowley leaned into the touch like a flower leans toward the sun. 

"I think," Aziraphale said, carefully, "that I would like to choose for myself."

He kissed Crowley then, under the spreading boughs of the tree of knowledge, deeper and more passionately than the demon had ever dared hope, and tasted the fruit on his lips. It did taste like apples, after all. 

Mostly, though,  it tasted of freedom, and of love, and of good things to come.


End file.
